If walls could talk, the Green Monster would have more to say than any of them. Just imagine:

To hitters: "Ouch. Those line drives leave a dent, you know."

To Tom Yawkey in 1934: "That's just right."

When he had me built during a Fenway renovation after buying the team, I was hoping to be as close to the action as possible. I was even closer than the "315" painted on my foul-pole side, though that wouldn't last. After some sneaky reporter measured the distance himself, the Red Sox went with "310."

To left fielders: "If you think I'm tricky, you should have played here before."

Before the Monster was built, the left field fence was 25 feet high; the base was on the top of a steep 10-foot grass embankment that was part of the playing field. Think Tal's Hill, only much steeper and far bigger.

To Ted Williams in 1947: "I owe you."

I looked more like a billboard until Williams complained about all the ads costing him at the plate. So they painted me green, and pitchers soon gave me my nickname.

The way he swung and missed at the first strike in his final at-bat of his career, I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to hit a home run so he could go out on his terms (he didn't even make the trip to New York for the season’s final series). After he got his wish with a blast well over the center-field fence, fans cheered for four minutes. They stood for another two when he was made to take the field for the ninth inning. But Williams never looked up and his cap never left his head.

To Tony Conigliaro in 1967: "You would have been as great as any of them."

Conigliaro was only 22 and recently had become the youngest player ever to reach 100 homers when his life changed on Aug. 18. The thud and silence that ensued when his left cheek was shattered by a Jack Hamilton fastball were sickening. Conigliaro made a remarkable comeback less than two years later, and he hit 36 homers when he was only 25. But his career fell way short of where it was headed.

To Carl Yastrzemski in 1967: "Now that's a great, great, great year."

The Red Sox needed to win the final day of the season to claim the pennant. Yaz went 4-for-4, drove in the tying runs in the sixth inning and completed his Triple Crown with a .326 average, 44 homers and 121 RBIs.

To Carlton Fisk in 1975: "No need to wave."

With my view, I knew the ball was staying fair and Game 7 would be coming.

To Bucky Dent in 1978: "You better be glad I can't jump."

I could only stand there helplessly when his three-run homer sailed over me and cost the Red Sox their place in the World Series. But I was not disappointed when, in 1990, George Steinbrenner used Fenway as the spot to fire Dent as Yankees manager as the Red Sox were completing a three-game sweep.

To Williams in 1999: "I told you so."

Williams was brought to tears by all the love shown to him by fans, players and media when he was introduced and brought onto the field before the All-Star Game. He even called the event "joyous."

To John Henry in 2003: "What took so long?”

I've been here since 1934 and it took 69 years for someone to figure out that putting bar stools on top of me would make the coolest seats in baseball. Now, can you cut me in on the $165 ticket price?

To Alex Rodriguez in 2004: "Don't mess with Tek."

A-Rod had to learn the hard way that Jason Varitek defended his pitchers.

To Dave Roberts in 2004: "Go!"

But he didn't need me telling him to steal. Everyone knew he was going when he took off against Mariano Rivera and Jorge Posada. When he was safe, the rest soon became history.

To Manny Ramirez in 2005: "You better get back on the field. And, hey, don't leave that cup in here."

To the fans: "What took so long?"

The Red Sox’s major league-record streak of sellouts will reach 719 on Friday afternoon, but Fenway wasn't always hip. In the season before the great pennant race of 1967, the Red Sox did not draw 1 million. Fenway did not lead the league in attendance after 1915 until '67. It then led six times in the next nine years before quaint ballparks were replaced by non-descript stadiums.